When the postman, who went the round of the Rue Saint Lazare
that morning, passed by, Laurent feigned to be a porter unable to
remember the name of a person to whom he had to deliver a parcel, and
consulted the postman. Deceived at first by appearances, this
personage, so picturesque in the midst of Parisian civilization,
informed him that the house in which the girl with the golden eyes
dwelt belonged to Don Hijos, Marquis de San-Real, grandee of Spain.
Naturally, it was not with the Marquis that the Auvergnat was
concerned.
"My parcel," he said, "is for the marquise."
"She is away," replied the postman. "Her letters are forwarded to
London."
"Then the marquise is not a young girl who . . . ?"
"Ah!" said the postman, interrupting the _valet de chambre_ and
observing him attentively, "you are as much a porter as I'm . . ."
Laurent chinked some pieces of gold before the functionary, who began
to smile.
"Come, here's the name of your quarry," he said, taking from his
leather wallet a letter bearing a London stamp, upon which the
address, "To Mademoiselle Paquita Valdes, Rue Saint Lazare, Hotel
San-Real, Paris," was written in long, fine characters, which spoke
of a woman's hand.
"Could you tap a bottle of Chablis, with a few dozen oysters, and a
_filet saute_ with mushrooms to follow it?" said Laurent, who wished
to win the postman's valuable friendship.
"At half-past nine, when my round is finished---- Where?"
"At the corner of the Rue de la Chaussee-d'Antin and the Rue
Neuve-des-Mathurins, at the _Puits sans Vin_," said Laurent.
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